Gregg Loomis - The Julian secret

Standing with his head against it and leveling the flashlight along it, he discovered more than a few carvings on this side also. Greek letters were almost as numerous as Latin inscriptions. There were also figures Lang did not recognize.

He stepped back to get a more complete view, slipped, and would have tripped over his cassock and fallen had he not been able to break his fall by steadying himself with his free hand against the wall.

Otherwise, he would never have seen it: a piece of stone that didn't exactly match that surrounding it at the bottom of what looked like one Of the support columns of the old church. Kneeling, he looked closer. A uniform layer of dust and dirt covered the entire wall. Only at an angle could Lang detect a slight difference in the stone's texture, too. Again using his hand, he brushed as much grit and dust away as possible.

Something had been carved into the stone, a series of letters someone had taken great pains to obliterate. Lang stood and moved to his right and to his left. The angle of the light picked up parts of letters, but not enough to even speculate as to the inscription.

He ran the light up and down the wall again, making certain of his original observation that this had been a support wall, one that could not have been moved. In fact, in early Christian times, technology would not allow weakening of this part of the_ foundation by cutting into it. Hence the effort to simply erase the words as easily as one emperor removed the name of his predecessor from the Pantheon. Lang sat on his haunches and thought. Most likely he had found Julian's secret, the emperor's prank.

But without being able to read it, how could it lead him anywhere?

Whoever had tried to kill him, had killed Gurt, obviously thought mere knowledge of the existence of this destroyed carving presented a danger to them.

Then he had another thought: Suppose they didn't know the words had been rendered unreadable? Either way, he was determined to decipher what had been rendered illegible. As he scrambled down the slope, he was making a mental list of equipment. Hadn't Reavers insisted on being committed?

The monitors in the featureless room were, dark, their screens a row of blind cyclopean eyes. In contrast, an overlay showing a map of Rome was backlighted, a single bright dot moving slowly across the southeast corner.

Taking a specially calibrated ruler from the drawer of the steel desk, the room's sole occupant laid it beside the dot, measuring its movement for several seconds before he picked up a telephone with no dial on it.

"He's leaving now," was all he said.

Somewhere between Paris and Rome

Eurostar

At the same time

It had been a time since she had ridden on a train. Not even once during the year she had spent in the United States, where such transportation was largely scorned for any journey longer than across town. Understandable, since American trains were far slower than travel by car, while those in Europe frequently exceeded a hundred and fifty kilometers an hour.

She leaned back in the seat, comfortable even though in third class, and peered out of the window into the night. Except for the few flashes of towns that were only smears of light, the darkness concealed any real sensation of movement other than the gentle rocking of the train itself.

Comfort or not, she would not have chosen to travel by rail had convenience and speed been her only criteria. To fly, one had to present identification, something she lacked. Airport security was far stricter than that of rail terminals, despite the terrorist bombing of the, Spanish train a year ago. She needed to travel in anonymity.

That was why she was enduring the man seated next to her, some sort of electronics salesman from Milan. He had made an elaborate display of offering to pay for the cheap sandwiches and bottled-water offered-by vendors who seemed to board the train at every stop. He had made no secret (and, she suspected, little truth) in recounting the endless successes of his business, the cost of whatever motorcar he owned (she had almost dozed off and missed the marque), and the thrill and excitement of the life he lived.

He had not (and, she suspected, would not) get around to discussing the gold wedding band she guessed he was unable to remove from a pudgy finger.

A poor dye job on barely enough hair to comb over a pink scalp, a cheap, off-the-rack suit, and a cologne that could have been a weapon of mass destruction. He was so intent on her breasts as he spoke, she doubted he could recognize her face.

Antonio-that was the name he gave her, anyway clearly considered himself to be a gift to women. She considered him to be atonement for some long-forgotten sin. Still, she avoided the temptation to simply turn her back to him or, better yet, get up and move. There were no reserved seats in third class.

Bad as he was, Antonio served a useful function: A woman traveling with a man, even Antonio, was less conspicuous than one alone.

Keeping an attentive smile plastered in place, she simply tuned him out.

Another reason for traveling by rail was the opportunity to do so. She had gone from the hospital to the local rail station and been gratified to find a train due in the next few minutes, one that would take her to Lyon, where she would transfer to one for Paris and then directly to Rome. Pretending to read the posted schedules, she had waited until a man-purchased the ticket to Paris. As he had turned from the ticket booth, stuffing his ticket into a billfold, she had backed away and directly into his path. A Frenchman is unlikely to let such an opportunity with a pretty girl escape. While he pretended it was an accident that his hand found its way to her breast, she had helped herself to the wallet in his inside coat pocket.

A fair trade is an honest bargain. Or was it the other way around?

In other circumstances, she might have felt some modicum of guilt for the victim whose pocket she had deftly picked, but she desperately needed to get to Rome. And she could never have lifted the wallet had he not groped her. Perhaps the experience would prevent him from doing the same thing to another woman.

She doubted it. A Froggie who can keep his eyes and hands off an attractive woman is a dead Froggie.

Antonio launched into a new anecdote. Her mind was whirring with images blurred by the speed at which they appeared, somewhat like a film on fast-forward. The helicopter, hovering like a mechanical dragonfly, before exploding in a brilliant flash, the ensuing blackness. A brief moment of consciousness, being unable to-move under huge weight that seemed to crush the breath from her. A silence so intense it had a sound of its own.

The facts had come back to her, but in no particular sequence. Until she sorted them out, it seemed equally likely site had gone to Montsegur before, not after, leaving Atlanta or being in Seville. She did know what she had found in the pocket of the man who had intended to kill her, and she knew she must tell Lang.

But how?

She had lost her encoding communication device along with everything else but the clothes on her back. Some of the clothes on her back, she corrected, remembering the shredded blouse. Besides, she had no idea exactly where she could reach him, although she was certain she knew where to find him sooner or later. She could call his office and ask Sara to have Lang contact her. But if what she suspected was true, anything said over any phone connected to Lang was being monitored. She only hoped he recognized the possibility his conversations were not private.

She would simply have to follow the theory she had put together. She only hoped she got there in time.

She also hoped he would figure out he was on the wrong path. Or, as the Americans said, barking up the wrong tree. Why would anyone want to bark up a tree, right or wrong?